Pressure
by Azalea Rhoden
Summary: He'd been in the business long enough to know that the jobs that sounded easy were often anything but.
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note:**  
Chapters 1-11 are what I originally posted as I was writing this fic, and 12 is the entire edited, completed version. Read in whichever order you'd like!

* * *

PRESSURE  
1

* * *

This whole attendant business is... _different_.

For a man accustomed to moving through shadows, acting unseen and unheard—suddenly finding himself thrust out into the open? Out into the harsh light of day?

It's disquieting, to say the least.  
Especially since he's expected to be, well.

 _Quiet._

For an _entire week_.

Marquis Haruka had been rather firm on that point. Insistent, even. Why, one _might_ go so far as to say that the man _begged._

Obi wasn't sure how he was going to manage.  
Yet manage he must, for he didn't doubt that the Marquis would fail to make good on his numerous threats. Yes, he'd _enjoy_ finally having an excuse to toss a certain _attendant_ right off the bridge and into the river that divided Clairnes from Tanbarun. _Especially_ if said attendant caused any offense in a foreign court.  
He'd peered over the railing, when they crossed the border.  
It was a long way down.

Now, keeping a silent vigil while lounging in the comfortable chill of shadows was one thing, but this was _quite_ another. Obi resists the urge to tug at the stiff neck of his uniform, where the collar circled far too tight about his throat. _Stop fussing, it's supposed to be that way_ , Sir scolded, each time he'd tried to loosen one during the _endless_ fittings.

And he had a point.

A man certainly _did_ stay more alert when he constantly felt himself on the verge of _strangulation.  
_ So he kept his hands clasped firmly behind his back and hated the stupid stifling uniform more with every passing moment.

However.

This job necessitated maintaining a stricter standard of appearance than he was used to. That was all. So he pushed the itchy, pinching coat to the back of his mind.  
As for his orders, well.

Accompany a certain young lady to the neighboring country of Tanbarun, ensure no harm befell her, and escort her back to Clairnes when all was said and done.

It certainly sounded straightforward enough. But he'd been in the business long enough to know that the jobs that _sounded_ easy were often anything but. Like, say, the job that resulted in his most _recent_ change in employment.

 _Anything but_.

This time he carries no weapon. But the corner of his mouth twists into a wry smirk, because had they truly _meant_ to enforce that? They'd have to ban his presence altogether. Or lock him up with his knives.  
The ones that he let them find, at any rate.  
Besides, he found that a cool glance was more than enough to send the over-curious scrambling for cover.

Then again, a fair portion of his duty was turning out to be simply that. Intimidation. His mere presence, the fact that he looked competent—looked _dangerous_ —deterred all but the most stubborn.  
And the most stupid.

Even if he hadn't already suspected that His Highness the First Prince Raj Sherezad of Tanbarun was the latter, well.  
The morning's events certainly confirmed it.


	2. Chapter 2

2

* * *

With the slightest nod, Prince Raj whirls on his heel and takes his leave. No doubt to turn his displeasure back on his twin siblings, if they weren't smart enough to disappear when he wasn't looking. Ah, but, then again, perhaps young Princess Rona still lurked nearby. Wanting to rub her dear elder brother's incompetence in just a _bit_ more. She certainly seemed the sort, and His Highness _certainly_ deserved it.

Obi swallowed a wicked grin at the thought.

Still, an apology for the... _results_ of their little detour into the castle underworks?

 _That_ was certainly unexpected. But not unwelcome. He found himself slightly less irritated about the sorry state of his boots.

Now then.

He surveys the lush flora of the gardens, quickly spying the familiar bounce of apple red hair. Just in time to see his ward dip behind an enormous fern.  
 _Fawning over some rare plant, no doubt…_

Obi ambles along the winding path, muggy heat of the greenhouse crowding out the clammy chill of the tunnels. He didn't mind the cold and the dark, not really. But the little Miss preferred warmth and sunlight—and wherever she wandered, he would follow.

Shirayuki wasn't crouched along the path, examining strange flowers. Nor was she strolling ahead, farther up the meticulously groomed path.  
Instead, he finds her resting on an exquisite carved bench, elbows propped on her knees, in a shaded little nook hidden by overhanging vine and fern.  
Fan-shaped fronds conceal her from the rest of the world.

He pauses.  
No, resting was not the right word for it.

"Miss?"

Her back straightens somewhat, at the sound of his voice. And he can see that she's holding it again—the pocket watch Master gave her the morning they left Wistal. The watch that she'd carried round her neck like a protective amulet ever since. Not that the sight was overly surprising, he's seen it so many times already in the past few days, but not—not like _this_.

Not _grasping_ at it until her fingers turned white. Not _clutching_ like her very life depended on it.

"Careful, Miss. If you press too tight, it'll break." He means to lighten the mood, to tease her, but –

" _I'm_ the one being _pressed,_ " she replies, low. Perhaps she hadn't meant him to hear. But—there's an odd _lilt_ to her voice, a sort of barely concealed _something_ , and _–_

And his hackles spring up as he spins to face a servant. The young woman leaps back, but quickly sculpts her startled expression into a polite smile as he erases the tension from his own face.

"S-Sir Obi. You both must be, _weary_ after your, ordeal. His Highness wishes to extend an invitation for tea and light refreshments?"  
The servant speaks in soft tones, yet it is loud enough for Miss, who catches _invitation_ and her breath.

"My apologies," Obi regretfully bows his head, "but Milady wishes a moment to rest before dinner. And I'm afraid I really _must_ do something about the state of my boots, lest I track muck all over the carpets."

"Ah—shall I have something sent up to your rooms, then?"

"If you would, thank you."

The servant curtsies and practically flees back along the manicured path. He watches her go with a wince—he did not mean to frighten the staff.

"She's gone, Miss." Obi tilts his head, to glance over his shoulder.

Shirayuki doesn't respond.

"...Shall I keep watch, then?"

He's not sure if she inclined her head at that, or merely slumped farther forward. In the end, both outcomes were the same—the trip through the tunnels troubled her far more than she let on.  
Perhaps she'd talk about it later. Perhaps not. He squared his shoulders and eased into a watchful stance.

For now, he'll let her linger in the safety and comfort of shadows.


	3. Chapter 3

3

* * *

As soon as she returns to her room, as soon as the sturdy door slams shut behind her, as soon as the locking mechanism _clanks_ soundly into place, Shirayuki slumps heavily against the polished wood. Her chest heaving—straining to draw air into lungs that _still_ felt far too small—her fingers flailing to find the watch once more.

 _Calm down_ , she wills herself, cradling it against her pounding heart. _You're safe. You got out of there just fine, Shirayuki. No harm done._

 _Calm._

Breathe in.

 _Down._

Breathe out.

Slowly, gradually, she reigns in her erratic breathing, marking time by the steady _ticks_ and minute vibrations of the watch against her trembling hands.

 _Just a few more days_ , she reminds herself. _Then it will all be over. Then you can return to Clairnes, to Wistal, to the pharmacy…_

 _To Zen._

It's not that simple, of course. But it would certainly make this entire situation _easier_ if it were.

Easier than riding out this raging storm of nerves, clinging to the watch like a lifeline. Easier than laying awake at night, anxious _what-ifs_ howling in her head until exhaustion finally claimed her. Easier than starting each morning beholden to the ever-changing whims of a foolish prince.

 _Just hold on for a few more days..._

Somewhere nearby a floorboard _snaps_ and blood screams in her ears, ten thousand tiny voices shouting warnings and –

And a quick tap at the adjoining door silences _that_ chain of thought. Shirayuki composes herself, carefully tucking the watch back into her bodice.

* * *

This had become a routine of sorts. Insomuch as a routine was possible, being guests of, well.

They'd retire to their rooms—the servants often sending up tea and refreshments, courtesy of their host—and then they'd talk. Or rather she'd listen, while Obi prattled on about all the things he'd observed during the day. And he noticed things. A _lot_ of things.

It was uncanny, like the man had eyes in the back of his head.

With one sweeping glance, he _knew_ how many doors, how many windows, how many columns were in a given chamber, a given corridor. He could tell her exactly how to get there from their rooms, or any they'd visited. He knew the layout of the furniture, and could describe each piece in detail.

And he _remembered_ it all, too. Added the new information bit by bit to the map he was constructing in his head.

She had tried to test him, thinking that _surely_ he was playing her—and it only left her own head spinning.

The knock sounds again, slight note of urgency reverberating through the deafening roar of silence, and she crosses the room to the door.

It's Obi, of course, barefoot and balancing an immense tray—their _light_ refreshments—with one arm, his uniform coat flung carelessly over the other.

"Again?" she sighs.


	4. Chapter 4

4

* * *

Usually, this routine served to—if not calm her—it certainly made for a welcome distraction from her current _predicament_.

But today? Today was different. Try as she might, Shirayuki could not shake the creeping sense of dread that settled about her shoulders as they wandered the tunnels. The heavy chill clung to her spine, where it lingered like a bad dream.

And now here they sit, secure in their rooms, sprawled across a handful of gorgeous cabriole sofas, refreshments arranged on the elegant table between them. She slowly sipped at the tea while Obi mended the sleeve of his uniform coat for the third—or was this the _fourth_ , now?—time.

She'd offered to do it, but he took one look at her shaking hands, placed a cup of tea in them, and set to work.

The clothiers at Wistal had done all they could on such short notice, he said. They let out the seams, the hems, the darts as much as possible. It was still snug around the shoulders, and sometimes he forgot, was all.

At least it was always the side covered by his cape that gave way.

Obi chattered as he worked, about a noble he'd spotted wearing an appalling amount of jewelry while she picked half-heartedly at the delicacies before her. _Eleven rings on one hand, can you imagine, Miss?_ and _How did they even manage to hold a pen?_ and _Did the staff have to feed them, do you think?_ and –

And in the absence of something concrete to focus on, Shirayuki wandered. Drifted back toward darkness—to dimly lit tunnels and murky pools, to the hollow echo of footfalls on cold stone, to a cobble that yielded beneath her...

She's suddenly aware of a crushing silence, and glances up, a savory pastry crumbling in her hand.

"You're doing it again," says Obi, gazing steadily at her, half-repaired coat resting in his lap.

"I – _Sorry_ , I know," she wipes the remnants of the pastry from her fingers with a napkin far to fine for such a purpose, "I wasn't paying – "

"Not that," he leans forward, nodding at the half-dozen nibbled h'orderves littering her plate. "Your food."

"Ah. I'm, not that hungry." Shirayuki reaches for her cup, among other things. "The _tea_ is good, don't you think?"

He huffs, apparently not content to let the matter rest.  
"You've barely touched _anything_ , Miss. That's why they keep sending up so much food. I'm eating all of it," he stuffs a fruit tart into his mouth for emphasis, "so it's not poisoned."

The teacup explodes, scattering fine porcelain shards across the floor.

Shirayuki blinks at her empty hand before glancing down at the wreckage beneath her feet.  
Tea pooled around the fragments, as though trying to crawl beneath them and hide.

She nearly leaps out of her skin when Obi _swears_ —an oath that'd normally make her ears turn pink—ramming his shin into the edge of the table and clattering the rest of the dishes.  
"Sorry," he mutters, shaking out his hand, "stuck myself." He peers at his finger, before raising it to his mouth.

"Don't –" Shirayuki stammers, "– do you know how _dirty_ –"

"Yes, mine's _flithy_ , I'll wash it out with soap later."

"That's—that's not what I _meant_ , Obi."

"I'm fine, Miss."  
Still, he lowers his hand, regarding the pricked finger with furrowed brows.

Shirayuki leans forward, intending to fetch her medical kit, to clean up this mess, to do _something_ —but he catches her off guard before she can stand –

"But _you're_ not."


	5. Chapter 5

5

* * *

Obi wasn't sure which fell faster—the teacup, or the color from Miss's face. She went white as freshly laundered linens in half a heartbeat, and he kicked himself for saying something so thoughtless, so incredibly _stupid_.

He _knew_ there was bad blood—between his Master and the Prince of Tanbarun, that much was obvious—but he'd never gotten the full story out of anyone. Just bits and pieces, gleaned from idle gossip, body language, and what remained unsaid.

Now he'd just gone and dredged up the _unspeakable_.

He stared at his hand, scouring his brain for _something_ to say.

"You're breaking down again, Miss."  
Okay. That—that was something. Probably not the _best_ thing, but something.  
He could work with that.

Miss leaned forward as though she intended to stand, but stiffened beneath his words, slowly sinking back into the sofa.

"Sorry," she says.

"Don't apologize, it's not your fault."  
 _Don't interrupt her either, idiot,_ Obi kicked himself again. Then he noticed the mess he'd made of the table—dishes upended and spilled tea dripping onto the parquet. _Great_. He glanced down at the crumpled coat in his lap, and scratched at the phantom itch creeping across the back of his neck. _Stupid_. Finally, he raised his eyes toward her face. Where her carefully sculpted mask was just beginning to crack.

Damn.

She was _good_ —a far better pretender than his Master, who was struggling long before they even left Wistal. She didn't show warning signs until it was almost too late.

 _Damn._

"So...the underworks?" Obi prompts.

Miss sighs, pulling her legs up onto the cushion and curling them beneath her skirts.  
"I guess..." she began, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, "I thought, that we'd be stuck down there."  
With a strange sort of laugh, she tips her head back and stares at the intricate flora winding across the coffered ceiling.  
"...Would've been a long night," she murmurs.

"No. I was counting, Miss." He rights a cup and tosses his napkin at the puddle of tea.

"You—what?" she looks back down at him, confused.

" _Counting_. The steps. The turns. Which way to go to get out." He watched, wary as she puzzled through his words.

But her expression remained unchanged—instead, she squints at him.

"Then, why didn't we turn back?"

"Because we were tailed the entire time."  
Now _that_ had been aggravating. Not only did their pursuers _follow_ them into the underworks, they knew the route _and_ the traps. He couldn't risk dragging Miss and the Prince into a confrontation.

"You should have _said_ something, Obi." She rubs at her temples, frowning.

"I had it under control."  
There was nothing to do but offer up his own back as a target and wait for an opportunity.

She sighs again, a short burst of an exhale, and Obi tenses.

"I'm your guard, Miss," he ventures, after a moment of silence. "Dealing with that sort of thing is my job."

"At least—give me a say in the matter!"

Ah.  
He should stop right there—he knows he should. Knows that this isn't working, knows that it isn't his place, knows that he's dangerously close to crossing the line. And yet…

He crushed it firmly beneath his heel.


	6. Chapter 6

6

* * *

Shirayuki lost several moments to stunned silence—moments spent staring at the ruins of her cup, at tea-stained fragments glinting in the fading afternoon light.  
At herself, reflected piecemeal by so many shards of glazed porcelain.

She blinks, and slowly raises her head to stare at the man seated across the table.

" _Excuse me_?"

Obi stares back. "You heard."

"No, actually. I didn't."  
That was a lie, of course—his words cut straight to the quick, didn't they? But. That wasn't a conversation that she was going to have right now, not with him. She buries her fingers in her skirts. Grounds herself in the smooth fabric, and focuses on her breathing.

Obi began to squirm—shifting his weight, glancing down at his coat, scratching at his shoulder. Like he was mulling it over. Deciding if it was safer to fold, or to call her bluff.

And then he turned his amber eyes back toward her.

Oh.

"Just, stop." he says.

So he _was_ going to hold his ground.

"It's...difficult, to watch."

 _Difficult, huh?  
_ That was certainly one way to put it.

He speaks slowly, softly—raising one hand in a gesture that fell somewhere between an apology and a plea.  
"You… he _forced_ you to come – the Elder Highness – so stop. Acting like you chose this."

* * *

Izana.

She had been so relieved when she didn't have to face him alone. That Zen was there at her side. _He's sending me back._ There to be outraged, to insist that someone went with her. _He's sending me back._ There while her relief turned to stone cold dread, _he's sending me back,_ while her stomach roiled like wind-whipped surf, _he's sending me back,_ while one coherent thought echoed endlessly in her skull.

 _He's sending me back._

He's sending me back.

 **He's sending me back.**

* * *

"You're under duress, Miss."

And Shirayuki snaps to the present, tightening her grip on her skirts. _Breathe in, breathe out_. Then she returns her attention to her overbearing guard.

"Are you done?"

Three words. Three words and he finally glances away.

"Do you think I don't _know_ that? Obi, I – "

She releases her gown to gesture helplessly at all of _this_ before threading shakey fingers into her hair. She tugs, then sighs, dropping her hands to her lap and her gaze to the floor.

"Prince Izana had everything planned in advance."

Refusing was never a _real_ option. Not if she wanted to live in Clairnes. To work in the castle pharmacy. To stay with Zen.  
And Izana didn't even need the facade to tear any of those things from her. This was all just a convenient means to an end. If dragging Raj to Clairnes didn't work, then perhaps forcing her back to Tanbarun would.

"It really is a bad joke," Obi murmers.

"Is that what this is?"

"Miss?"

He turns back to face her—she can hear him move even if she doesn't see him—and her hands burrow into her skirts once more.

"Some kind of sick joke?"

Shirayuki stares at the once dainty teacup, lying broken on the floor. _This wasn't your fault._

"That's—Miss, that _isn't_ – "

There's an edge to his voice, bordering on desperation, but she really doesn't care anymore.

"Is this a game to you?" she asks, wearily.

" _Of course not_!"

So much energy. It hardly seems fair when she's so, _so_ very tired.

"Then what _are_ you doing?"

"I—I'm your _guard,_ Miss."

At that, she merely shakes her head. If only something so simple could free her from the noise and exhasution.

"Zen could have sent Kiki, or Mitsuhide, with me."

Shirayuki finally raises her head, to look at her companion in this sad state of affairs.

"So why are you here?"


	7. Chapter 7

7

* * *

Miss had a point, of course.

It made _far_ more sense to send Sir, as Master originally intended. Someone who actually knew the ropes—knew how to handle nobility, knew how to wield authority—knew what was expected of a court attendant.

It was a lot of pressure for a old pro, let alone a newcomer. But Obi couldn't complain.

He'd been the one to ask for this.

* * *

Perhaps somewhere, in the farthest reaches of his mind, a quiet, sensible little voice whispered that this would never work. Someone like _you_? A job like _this_?

 _Not a chance_.

But.

Master surprised him before. Kept on surprising him, really. So he ignored all those nagging doubts and issued the challenge.

In hindsight, he should have expected it—the ferocity with which the prince lunged at him. Two weeks of relentless searching, of scouring docks and ships and warehouses, all without even a _hint_ of a lead?

 _Parry._

Of course his Master felt cornered.

 _Dodge._

Ready to lash out at something. Or someone.

 _Block – damn. The blow renders his entire arm numb. He tosses the practice sword to his other._

But that was the point. Too much pressure shatters anything. Breaks stone, bends metal.

 _Parr—the wood splinters as the sword snaps in his hand. Seizing the opening, his Master charges and instinct smothers him—instinct he barely managed to supress, wrenching 'incapacitate' to 'disarm.'_

Obi landed lightly, mere moments before Master's sword _clattered_ to the floor at the edge of the practice ring.

And then everything started happening at once.

It was _late._ The little Miss was leaving in mere _hours_ —he'd just ruined _days_ of careful planning. But no one complained. Master went to inform her of his decision. Miss Kiki handled the necessary documents. And Sir dragged him off to the castle clothiers, leaping straight into an explanation of his newfound duties.

* * *

His gaze had drifted to his feet as he pondered, so he risked a glance at Miss.

She was still waiting patiently for her answer.  
Staring with those unnerving eyes when he hadn't many to spare.

Obi scratched at his shoulder and looked to the wall instead—studied the patterns in the gilt wallpaper, the wainscoting's woodgrain.

 _Damn._

If there's a joke here, it's _him._

His _arrogance_ in thinking half a night's instruction equipped him to handle _any_ of this. This was not his arena nor his modus operandi. And no matter how he looked at it, he was a weapon, not a shield.

So why _was_ he here?

"Well?" she asks.

He tensed reflexively. Maybe Miss wasn't so patient after all.

"Is that a secret too?"

Or maybe she was just tired of his stalling. He wasn't exactly being subtle. Obi risks another glance.

She _did_ look tired.

It peered out more and more from behind the crumbling edges of her mask.

Not the physical exhaustion after a long day's work, or even the crash that follows a particularly close call. No, this was the kind of tired that builds slowly—the kind that grinds down bit by bit over days and weeks and months until all that remained was an empty shell, a relentless bone deep weariness and the feverish desire for respite.

The Elder Highness was certainly doing his best to break her.

And she was _too damn good_ a pretender-like coastal cliffs undermined by the sea, the damage remained hidden until the whole thing suddenly came crashing down.

He hadn't done a _thing_ to guard her from that. All his blundering did was make everything _worse_.

Now he watched as she teetered on the brink, afraid his next word, his next action would tip her over the edge instead of snatching her back.

"What – " he ventures, cautious.

At this point, there was nothing else for it.

"What am I doing wrong?"


	8. Chapter 8

8

* * *

Shirayuki stares at her guard, completely and utterly dumbfounded.

She'd obviously misheard. That _must_ be it—these weeks of perpetual exhaustion had finally gotten the better of her, and now—on top of _everything else_ , she was hallucinating.  
Because there's no way _._

 _No one_ could possibly be that _dense._

And yet he had kept so quiet, seemed so, well— _thoughtful_ —that for once she assumed he'd actually give her a straight answer. Not—not _this_. Not one more bend in his long, winding trail of diversion.

A small pang of guilt ripped through her gut as she realized _exactly_ why Zen called him an idiot. And then it promptly evaporated when Obi repeated his question. Only louder, in case she hadn't understood him the first time.

Shirayuki ground her fingertips into her temples, trying to collect the frayed ends of her nerves.  
 _Just how far was he planning to take this?_

"Miss, _please_ tell me. What am I doing _wrong_?" he insists.

Apparently her grim silence was not having the desired effect. That, or every ounce of his uncanny perception had suddenly abandoned him. When he opened his mouth for the fourth time, the words flew from her tongue before she could still them.

"You can't be serious."

To his credit, the man actually flinched. But he steadied himself, and then had the gall to open his mouth _again_ –

"You mean _besides_ picking fights?" she snaps.

Shirayuki heaved out a shuddering breath and ran her fingers through her vibrant hair. Collected it at the nape of her neck, then let it fall. If he was _that_ determined to mock her...

"Miss—" he blinks twice, "That wasn't my –"

But she cuts him off with a sharp gesture and a sigh, "Look. On the off chance you _haven't_ noticed—I'm _tired_ , Obi. I'm tired – I'm _stressed_ , and I _don't_ have the energy to play _games_ with you."  
She threads her fingers together and gingerly places her hands into her lap, ignoring the urge to instead coil them into fists.  
"So if you're looking for entertainment, go find Sakaki."

Now that— _that_ got a reaction out of him.  
"You know about – " he starts, quickly bowing his head before going absolutely _rigid_.

"Of course I know about your little midnight conversation on _castle security,_ " she says, small twinge of pride prickling across her skin for _finally_ gaining the upper hand in this sparring match.

 _While a professional's opinion is always enlightening_ , Sakaki told her in his characteristic deadpan, _do keep a tighter reign on your bodyguard._

However, keeping her own tone mild proved a nigh-impossible challenge.  
"Were you trying to get us both _arrested_?"

"I wasn't—"

"Then stop," she hisses, " _playing around_!"

I don't think it's a _game_ , Miss!" he protests, his head snapping up to meet her steely gaze.

"Oh. That's right," Shirayuki sneers, "it was a _joke_ , wasn't it?"

Something flashed across his eyes then, but it was gone before she could place it.

"This is all one big joke," she smolders, "and _you_ just couldn't miss the _punchline_!"

And for once, Obi holds his tongue, as the accusation settled between them.

They stared at one another from across the cluttered table, the inconsistent drip of spilled tea and her own haggard breathing the only sounds in the room. She couldn't tell if he was breathing hard too. He certainly wasn't moving.

"Sorry."

" _What_?" she blinks, not sure if she'd heard properly.

"I'm sorry." he repeats softly, tugging at his shoulder.

"I wasn't trying to get caught."

"You –" she sighs heavily into her hands, "can't just _wander off_ like that, Obi."

"I was looking for escape routes. In case – "

Shirayuki grit her teeth, but the words tumbled out anyway.

"You _left me_ alone with _him_!"


	9. Chapter 9

9

* * *

Everything slips into place the _moment_ the words leave her mouth, and –

" _You_ just," she stammers, face still buried in her hands, "just, turned around and _ran off_!"

– and he'd never _dreamed_ that words—a mere _handful_ of _words—_ emptied lungs with all the ruthless efficiency of a savage blow.

"With a, an _'I'll be right back!'_ And I thought –"

She gasps. It's harsh, raspy. Halfway a sob. He can't see her face.

"– you'd get caught in a trap, or wah— _worse_."

He can't even move.

* * *

Give Miss a semblance of control by letting her pick the destination, certainly knowing which she'd choose. Far too many prying eyes stationed along the route, yet conveniently near an entrance to the castle underworks. Promptly forgetting the way and cutting off their escape with an accidentally triggered gate. Add a persistent tail, to keep the attendant focused on what lurked behind?

It was _perfect_.  
An elegant trap poised to eliminate two annoyances in one fell swoop.

And he ushered her straight into it, to get her away from _gawkers._

* * *

"Wh, why? What were you _thinking_?" she sniffs.

Obi blinks.

Motion returns to his limbs, a bolt from the blue. He forces air into his lungs. Tests his fingers one by one _._ Wills his heart to slow it's breakneck pace.  
Now what?

 _Think._

 _Words_. He needed _words_.

 _Good_ ones—coherent, calm. Carefully considered.

But there were none. No words, no excuses, no explanations.

Still he clamped his jaw shut, lest his tongue betray him.

"You didn't answer my question," Miss presses, rubbing slowly at her eyes.

 _Shit_.

"I...thought I'd catch our tail," he says. "Make them lead us out. Since his Highness was roaming in circles."

She doesn't respond to that with words, just a low rumble muffled by her hands.

Obi leans forward. "Miss?"

"I _said_ ," she mutters, shifting just enough to make herself heard, "the tail you didn't see fit to _mention_."

"I—didn't want to worry you."  
It's both true and nowhere near enough.

" _Lying_ is supposed to make me worry _less_?"

But it wasn't a lie. Not really. She didn't notice, and he didn't volunteer the information.

It was a gambit _she_ made skillful use of, as well.

"What," Obi inquires, ignoring the mounting tension in his shoulder, his chest. "What would you have done?" It came out sharper than he'd intended, a stone clattering down a rocky hillside.

Miss's chin snapped up, hair flung askew. Her hands hover before her, trembling; grasping in vain for an anchor, clutching nothing but charged air.

"No turning back after his Highness sprang that trap."

She starts, one hand white knuckling into her skirts. "I'd think of – "

He only gained momentum. "Planning on talking to them?"

The other flies to the watch at her heart, fingers latching to the familiar shape through the fabric of her gown. "Stop it." Her voice crackles.

Still, he forged ahead—with all the subtle discretion of a boulder hurtling down a mountain.

"Hope whoever it was happened to be friendly?"

The storm finally breaks.

"Even if I couldn't change _anything_ ", she rages, rolling thunder through the room; eyes flashing white-hot lightning, "I'd still rather _know_!"

A pox on his _damn fool tongue_.


	10. Chapter 10

10

* * *

Every. Single. Time. Shirayuki thought that this was it, that she'd _finally_ crashed to the bottom of this hellhole and things couldn't _possibly_ get any _worse—_ he kicks her feet out from under her. Sends her sprawling, desperately flailing to regain her stance.

"And _how_ ," Obi retorts, his own footing immutable as stone, "am _I_ supposed to know that if you won't _tell_ me?"

She finds her feet. " _Oh_ , so now it's all _my_ fault."  
It just kept on going, kept on getting better and _better,_ didn't it?

" _You_ ," he stabs a finger at her, emphasizing every word with a slow twist, "are too good a _pretender!_ "

That knocks her off balance, but she recovers, comes back swinging.  
"I wouldn't _need_ to pretend if you'd just do your _job!_ "

Obi swings his own arm around, slaps her counterattack aside. "I _can't_ , unless _you_ let me!"

And then—then there is a lull, a brief respite.

A stilling of limbs, and a catching of breath.

But not a calming of minds, nor of wills.

For each seeks the next opening, and each tries to guess the other's strategy.

Each searches for the quickest way to end this nonsense.

Shirayuki glares hard at her guard, trying to puff herself up, look more threatening than she felt. It's no good. She can't read him. She doesn't know what to expect, but she knows she won't like it.

Obi leans forward and she steels herself.

"I'm on your side, Miss." He _sounds_ earnest, but his face is blank, ill effects of the previous exchange wiped clean off.

Such an abrupt change of tactics—a feint?  
"Really?" So she drenches her own voice in venom. "I'd have _never_ guessed."

The facade _crumbles_.  
"You _stubborn_ little –!" Obi's hand flies to his mouth—but it's too late, far too late. Because there it is again, that little warble –

– and _this_ time, Shirayuki _lunges_.  
"Little _what_?" she punches, throwing all the force her tiny frame can muster behind it.

He meets her gaze but doesn't respond. His hand remains frozen between them—palm out, fingers half splayed.

So she fists her own fingers into her skirts and _goads_ him.

"I'm the _punchline_ , right?"

It lands, she _knows_ it does, from the twitch of his jaw, the tremor in his hand, and the sharp _whoosh_ that accompanies each breath he forces through his nose.

But he simply stares.

Unblinking, unyielding, unmoving.

Her carefully contained rage threatens to boil over once more, but she checks herself. Checks her breathing, loosens her death-grip on her gown. It's a testament to the quality of the fabrics that she hasn't put a hole in it yet.

Still, she can't take much more of this.

Finally, he lowers his arm, if only just a bit.  
"You don't have to trust me – "

"Don't _patronize_ me." Shirayuki snaps.

Obi gestures for calm before settling back into the sofa, tilting his head until he is the one studying the ceiling. The rest of his limbs slowly slacken as he shakes off the pent-up tension.

And that—that is new.

" – Just, tell me how to _help_ you."


	11. Chapter 11

**11**

* * *

Obi stares at the ceiling. At the carved flora weaving in and out of dark coffers, at the little piles of dust clinging precariously to the shadows of leaf and vine. Vine that seemed to writhe and slither the longer he looked at it.

How had he even _managed_ to bungle things so quickly, so _completely_?

He hadn't done a _thing_ to shield her. And all he did do? Made everything _worse_.  
Slowly, he raises one arm, reaching again for that insufferable little itch creeping along back of his neck.  
Damn that _stupid_ collar...

" _Don't_ – " says Miss, her tone piercing deep as the cry of a rusted gate in the night. "Don't wander off again. Don't keep _anything else_ from me!"

And his mind instantly alights with practical considerations. Races through different scenarios, likelihoods, probabilities. Encounters a problem.  
"What if I can't tell you?"

Judging from her sharp hiss of breath, it was the wrong thing to say.

 _Damn it all,_ Obi sighs, silent.

Really _._

 _Really_.

He thought he knew everything there was to know about exhaustion, but this?

This was new. This was different.  
All they did was talk—fight— _argue_ , and still it sapped his strength far faster than the most demanding of tasks he'd ever set his body to.  
Ridiculous. Words alone shouldn't drain him so.

Abruptly noting the suspicious length of Miss's silence, he tips his chin down to quietly peer at her.

Her shoulders remain bunched and tense, trembling hands coiled into fists, fingers full of gown—but her green eyes dart this way and that. Glancing over their tea-soaked refreshments as she ponders...something.

Obi lifts his head to get a better look.

"You could _cough_ —" she finally muses, hesitant. "If you noticed anything...strange. Then I'd at least _know_ , and those nearby...wouldn't?"  
Her voice steadies with each word and she looks up at him. "We can get somewhere safe and _then_ you'd tell me."

He blinks, tapping his chin and humming low to himself. "Like a _code_."

"Yes! Exactly!" Miss's shoulders finally relax somewhat when she eases her hold on her skirts.

Obi furrows his brow, considering the idea as he hoists himself forward, nudges an empty saucer back toward the center of the table. "Yeah. I can do that."

Seriously. He _should_ have thought of it much, much sooner. Codes were commonplace in his _previous_ line of work, and they'd certainly do the job every bit as well in this one.

He meets her gaze. "What else?"

All they needed to do was work out the signals.

"What...else?" she echoes.

"If there's something _you_ don't like, Miss."

"Oh. Like...pretending to stumble?"

"Something smaller," he starts, picking up a spoon. Then quickly adds – "But if you pretended to twist an ankle, that's an excuse to leave."

"Hm, I..." Miss pauses, releases her gown completely to press her fingers together.  
"Maybe I'll just cough too..."

"That'll work." He twirls the utensil through his fingers. It'll work _perfectly_.

"Wait," she says.

The spoon freezes in his hand.

She peers up at him, over her fingertips. "What if _you_ pretend to twist an ankle?"

"Ah." An odd question to be sure, but—it's _good_. "Then...someone might get careless, if they think the bodyguard is injured."

Miss hums, crinkling her brow.

"That or I pretend to be drunk," he offers.

Miss frowns. "No one familiar with your drinking habits will buy that," she deadpans.

 _Aha ha_.

Obi swallows.  
"Sorry. Bad joke."

* * *

 _Author Note:_

All right! We made it to the end!  
So I have been tweaking this story as I wrote it, and as soon as I've finished a final round of edits, I'll post the entire completed version as it's own chapter instead of updating each one individually like I did with Scars. :)


	12. Chapter 12

**1**

* * *

This whole attendant business is...different.

For a man accustomed to moving through shadows, acting unseen and unheard—suddenly finding himself thrust into the open? Out into the harsh light of day?

It's disquieting, to say the least.

Especially since he's expected to be, well.

Quiet.

For an _entire week_.

Marquis Haruka had been rather firm on that point. Insistent, even. Why, one _might_ go so far as to say the man _begged._

Obi wasn't sure how he was going to manage.

Yet manage he must, for the Marquis won't hesitate to turn any missteps against him. Oh no—he'd _enjoy_ finally having an excuse to be rid of a certain royal messenger _._ And if said messenger happened to cause some small offense in a foreign court?

Well, he'd best stay focused.

* * *

Now, keeping a silent vigil while lounging in the comfortable chill of shadow was one thing, but this was _quite_ another. Obi resists the urge to tug at the stiff neck of his uniform, where the collar circled far too tight about his throat. _Stop fussing, it's supposed to be that way_ , Sir scolded, each time he tried to loosen one during the _endless_ fittings.

And he had a point.

A man certainly _did_ stay more alert when he constantly felt himself on the verge of strangulation.

So he kept his hands clasped firmly behind his back and hated the stupid stifling uniform more with every passing minute.

However.

This job necessitated a stricter standard of appearance than he was used to. That was all. So he pushed the itchy, pinching coat to the back of his mind.

As for his orders:  
Accompany a certain young lady to the neighboring country of Tanbarun, ensure no harm befell her, and escort her back to Clairnes when all was said and done.

It certainly sounded straightforward enough. But he'd been in the business long enough to know the jobs that _sounded_ easy were often anything but. Like, say, the job that resulted in his most _recent_ change in employment.

 _Anything but_.

This time he carries no weapon. But the corner of his mouth twists into a wry smirk, because had they truly _meant_ to enforce that? They'd have to lock him up with his knives. The ones that he let them find, at any rate.  
Besides, he found that a cool glance was more than enough to send the over-curious scrambling for cover.

Then again, a fair portion of his duty was turning out to be just that. Intimidation. His mere presence, the fact that he looked competent—looked _dangerous_ —deterred all but the most stubborn.

And the most stupid.

Even if he hadn't already suspected that His Highness the First Prince Raj Sherezad of Tanbarun was the latter, well.

The morning's events certainly confirmed it.

* * *

 **2**

* * *

With the slightest nod, Prince Raj whirls on his heel and takes his leave. No doubt to turn his displeasure back on his twin siblings, if they weren't smart enough to disappear when he wasn't looking. Ah, but then again, perhaps young Princess Rona still lurked nearby. Wanting to rub her dear elder brother's incompetence in just a _bit_ more. She certainly seemed the sort, and His Highness _certainly_ deserved it.

Obi swallowed a wicked grin at the thought.

Still, an apology for the... _results_ of their little detour into the castle underworks?  
 _That_ was certainly unexpected. But not unwelcome. He found himself slightly less irritated at the soggy state of his boots.

Now then.

He surveys the lush flora of the gardens, quickly spying the familiar bob of apple red hair. Just in time to see his ward dip behind an enormous fern.  
 _Fawning over some rare plant, no doubt…_

Obi ambles along the winding path, muggy heat of the greenhouse crowding out the clammy chill of the tunnels. He didn't mind the cold and the dark, not really. But the little Miss preferred warmth and sunlight—and wherever she wandered, it was his duty to follow.

Miss wasn't examining the exotic flowers lining the manicured path. Nor was she strolling farther up ahead.  
Instead, he spies her resting on an exquisite carved bench tucked back beneath a trellis, elbows propped on her knees. Overhanging vine and fern conceal the quiet little nook from the rest of the world.

He pauses.

No, resting was not the right word for it.

"Miss?"

Her back straightens somewhat, at the sound of his voice. And he can see that she's holding it again—the pocket watch Master gave her the morning they left Wistal. The watch she'd carried round her neck like an amulet ever since. Not that the sight was overly surprising, he's seen it so many times already in the past few days, but not—not like _this_.

Not _grasping_ at it until her fingers turn white. Not _clutching_ like her very life depends on it.

"Careful, Miss. If you press too tight, it'll break." He means to lift this heavy mood, to tease her –

" _I'm_ the one being _pressed,_ " she retorts, low. Perhaps she hadn't meant him to hear. But—there's an odd _lilt_ to her voice, a sort of barely concealed _something_ , and _–_

And his hackles jolt to full alert as he spins to face a servant. The young woman recoils, but quickly sculpts her expression into a polite smile as he erases the hostility from his own face.

"S-Sir Obi. You both must be _weary_ after your, ordeal. His Highness wishes to extend an invitation for tea and light refreshments?"  
The servant speaks in soft tones, just loudly enough for Miss, who catches _invitation_ and her breath.

"My apologies," Obi regretfully bows his head, "but Milady wishes a moment to rest before dinner. And I'm afraid I really _must_ do something about these boots, lest I trail muckwater all over the carpets."

"Ah—shall I have something sent up to your rooms, then?"

He nods in assent. "If you would, thank you."

The servant curtsies, turns, and all but flees back along the cobbles. He watches her go with a wince. He did not mean to frighten the staff.

After the girl darts round a bend and out of earshot, Obi tilts his head to glance over his shoulder.  
"She's gone, Miss."

Miss doesn't respond.

"Shall I keep a look out, then?"

He's not sure if she inclined her head at that, or merely slumped farther forward. In the end, both outcomes were the same—the trip through the tunnels troubled her far more than she let on.

Perhaps she'd talk about it later. Perhaps not. He squared his shoulders and eased into a vigilant stance.

For now, he'll let her linger in the safety and comfort of shadow.

* * *

 **3**

* * *

As soon as she returns to her room, as soon as the sturdy door slams shut behind her, as soon as the lock _clanks_ soundly into place, Shirayuki slumps heavily against the varnished wood. Her chest heaving, _straining_ to draw air into lungs that felt far too small, her fingers flailing to find the watch once more.

 _Calm down_ , she wills herself, cradling it against her pounding heart. _You're safe. You got out of there just fine, Shirayuki. No harm done._

 _Calm._

Breath in.

 _Down._

Breath out.

Slowly, _slowly_ , she reigns in her erratic breathing, marking time by the steady _ticks_ and minute vibrations of the watch against her trembling hands.

 _Just a few more days_ , she reminds herself. _Then it will all be over. Then you can return to Clairnes, to Wistal, to the pharmacy…_

 _To Zen._

It's not that simple, of course. But it would certainly make this entire situation _easier_ if it were.  
Easier than riding out this raging storm of nerves, clinging to the watch like a lifeline. Easier than laying awake at night, anxious _what-ifs_ howling in her head until exhaustion finally claimed her. Easier than starting each morning beholden to the ever-changing whims of a foolish prince.

 _Just hold on for a few more days..._

A floorboard _snaps_ in the hall and blood screams in her ears, a chorus of tiny voices shouting warnings and –

And a quick tap at the adjoining door silences _that_ chain of thought. Shirayuki composes herself, carefully tucking the watch back into her bodice.

* * *

This had become a routine of sorts. Insomuch as a routine was possible, being guests of, well.

They'd retire to their rooms—the servants providing tea and refreshments, courtesy of their host—and then they'd talk. Or rather she'd listen, while Obi prattled on about all the things he'd observed during the day. And he noticed things.

A _lot_ of things.

It was uncanny, like the man had eyes in the back of his head.

With one sweeping glance, he _knew_ how many doors, how many windows, how many columns were in a given chamber, a given corridor. He could tell her exactly how to get there from their rooms, or any they'd visited. He knew the layout of the furniture, and could describe each piece in detail.

And he _remembered_ it all, too. Added the new information bit by bit to the map he was constructing inside his head.  
She had tried to test him, thinking that _surely_ he was playing with her—and it only left her own head spinning.

* * *

The knock sounds again, slight note of urgency reverberating through the deafening roar of silence, and she crosses the room to the door.

It's Obi, of course, barefoot and balancing an immense tray—their _light_ refreshments—on one arm, his uniform coat flung over the other.

She sighs.

"Again?"

* * *

 **4**

* * *

Usually, this routine served to—if not calm her—it certainly made for a welcome distraction from her current _predicament_.

But today?

Today was different. Try as she might, Shirayuki could not shake the creeping sense of dread that settled about her shoulders as they wandered the tunnels. The heavy chill clung to her spine, where it lingered like a bad dream.

And now here they sit. Secure in their rooms, sprawled across a pair of gorgeous cabriole sofas, refreshments arranged slapdash on the elegant table between them. She slowly sipped at the tea while Obi mended the sleeve of his uniform for the third—or was this the _fourth_ time, now?

She'd offered to do it, but he took one look at her shaking hands, placed a half-cup of tea in them, and set to work.  
The clothiers at Wistal had done all they could on such short notice, he said. They let out the seams, the hems, the darts as much as possible. It was still snug around the shoulders, and sometimes he forgot, was all.

At least it was always the side covered by his cape that gave way.

Obi chattered as he worked, about a noble he'd spotted wearing an appalling amount of jewelry while she sampled the delicacies before her. _Eleven rings on one hand, can you imagine, Miss?_ and _How did they even manage to hold a pen?_ and _Did the staff have to feed them, do you think?_ and...

And in the absence of something concrete to focus on, Shirayuki wandered. Drifted back toward darkness—to dimly lit tunnels and murky pools, to the hollow echo of footfalls on cold stone, to a cobble that yielded beneath her –

She's suddenly aware of a crushing silence and glances up, savory pastry crumbling in her hand.

"You're doing it again," says Obi, gazing steadily at her, half-repaired coat resting in his lap.

"I – _Sorry_ , I know," she wipes the remains of the pastry from her fingers with a napkin far too fine for such a purpose, "I wasn't paying –"

"Not that," he leans forward, nodding at the half-dozen nibbled h'orderves littering her plate. "Your food."

"Ah. I'm, not that hungry." Shirayuki reaches for her cup. "The _tea_ is good, don't you think?"

But he huffs.  
"You've barely touched _anything_ , Miss. That's why they keep sending up so much food. I'm eating all of it," he stuffs a mince pie into his mouth for emphasis, "so it's not poisoned."

The teacup explodes, scattering fine porcelain shards across the floor.

Shirayuki blinks at her empty hand before slowly glancing down, to the wreckage at her feet.  
Tea pooled around the shattered cup, trying to burrow beneath the fragments and hide.

Then Obi _swears_ , ramming his shin into the edge of the table and she starts violently, placing a hand on her heart—on the watch—to steady her nerves.

"Sorry," he mutters, shaking out his hand. "Stuck myself." He peers at his finger, before raising it toward his –

" _Don't_ –" Shirayuki stammers, "– do you know how _dirty_ –"

"Yes, mine's _flithy_ , I'll wash it out later."

"That's— _not_ what I _meant_ , Obi."

"I'm _fine_ , Miss."  
Still, he lowers his hand, regarding the pricked finger with furrowed brows.

Shirayuki leans forward, intending to fetch her medical kit, to clean up this mess, to do— _something_ —but he catches her off guard before she can stand.

* * *

 **5**

* * *

Obi wasn't sure which fell faster—the teacup, or the color from Miss's face. She went white as freshly laundered linens in half a heartbeat, and he kicked himself for saying something so thoughtless, so incredibly _stupid_.

He _knew_ there was bad blood—between his Master and the Prince of Tanbarun, that much was obvious—but he'd never weaseled the full story out of anyone. Just bits and pieces, gleaned from idle gossip, body language, and what remained unsaid.

Now he'd gone and dredged up the unspeakable.

He stared at his hand, scouring his brain for _something_ to say.

"You're breaking down again, Miss."  
That—that _was_ something. Probably not the _best_ thing, but –  
He could certainly work with it.

Miss stiffened beneath his words, slowly sinking back into the sofa.

"Sorry," she says.

"Don't apologize, it's not your fault."  
 _Don't interrupt her either, idiot,_ Obi kicked himself again. Then he noticed the mess he'd made of the table—dishes upended and tea dripping onto the parquet. _Great_. He glanced down at the crumpled coat in his lap, scratched at the phantom itch crawling across the back of his neck. _Stupid_. Finally, he raised his eyes toward her face. Where her carefully sculpted mask was just beginning to crack.

Damn.

She was _good_ —a far better pretender than his Master. She didn't show warning signs until it was almost too late.

 _Damn._

"So...the underworks?" Obi prompts.

Miss sighs, pulling her legs up onto the cushion and curling them beneath her skirts.  
"I guess..." she began, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, "I thought, that we'd be stuck down there."  
With a strange sort of laugh, she tips her head back and stares at the intricate flora winding across the coffered ceiling.  
"Would've been a long night," she murmurs.

"No. I was counting, Miss." He rights a cup and tosses his napkin at the puddle of tea.

"You—what?" she looks back down at him, confusion clouding her features.

" _Counting_. The steps. The turns. Which way to go to get out." He watched, wary, as she puzzled through his words.

But her expression remained unchanged.  
"Then, why didn't we turn back?"

"Because we were tailed the entire time."  
Now _that_ had been aggravating. Not only did their pursuers _follow_ them into the underworks, they knew the route _and_ the traps. He couldn't risk dragging Miss and the Prince into a confrontation.

She rubs at her temples, frowning.  
"You should have _said_ something, Obi."

"I had it under control."  
There was nothing to do but offer up his own back and wait for an opportunity.

She sighs again. A sharp burst of an exhale, all the air rushing from her lungs at once.

 _Ah_.

"Miss," Obi ventures, after a moment of silence, "dealing with that sort of thing is my job."

And he should stop right there—he knows he should. Knows that it isn't his place, knows that he's dangerously close to crossing the line. And yet…

"At least—give me some say in the matter!" breathes Miss.

He crushed it firmly beneath his heel.

* * *

 **6**

* * *

Shirayuki lost several moments to stunned silence—moments spent staring at the ruins of her cup, at tea-stained fragments glinting in the fading afternoon light.  
At herself, reflected piecemeal by so many shards of glazed porcelain.

She blinks, and slowly raises her head to stare at the man seated across the table.

"Pardon?"

Obi stares back.

"You heard."

"No, actually. I didn't."  
That was a lie, of course—he certainly cut straight to the quick, didn't he? But. That wasn't a conversation she was going to have right now, not with him. She buries her fingers in her skirts. Grounds herself in the smooth fabric, and focuses on her breathing.

Obi began to squirm—shifting his weight, glancing down at his coat, scratching at his shoulder, and –

Oh.

He stopped fussing and turned his amber eyes back toward her.

So he _was_ going to hold his ground.

"Just, stop." he says. "It's difficult, to watch."

Well.  
That was certainly _one_ way to put it.

He speaks slowly, softly—raising one hand in a gesture that fell somewhere between an apology and a plea.  
"You...he _forced_ you to come – the Elder Highness – so stop. Acting like you chose this."

* * *

She had been so relieved, when she didn't have to face _him_ alone. That Zen was there at her side. _He's sending me back._ There to be outraged, to insist someone went with her. _He's sending me back._ There while her relief turned to stone cold dread, _he's sending me back,_ there while her stomach roiled like wind-whipped surf, _he's sending me back,_ there while one coherent thought echoed endlessly in her skull.

He's sending me back.

 _He's sending me back._

 **He's sending me back.**

* * *

"You're under duress, Miss."

And Shirayuki tightens her grip on her skirts. _Breathe in, breathe out_. Then she returns her attention to her overbearing guard.

"Are you done?"

Three words. Three simple words and he _finally_ glances away, opting instead to stare at a wall.

"Do you think I don't _know_ that? Obi, I – "  
She releases her gown to gesture helplessly at him, at the room, at _all of this_ before threading trembling fingers into her hair. She tugs, then sighs, dropping her hands to her lap and her gaze to the floor.

"Prince Izana had everything planned in advance."

Refusing was never a _real_ option. Not if she wanted to live in Wistal. To work in the castle pharmacy. To be with Zen.  
And Izana didn't even need the facade to tear any of those things from her. This was all just a convenient means to an end—if dragging Raj to Clairnes didn't work, then perhaps forcing her back to Tanbarun would.

"It really is a bad joke," Obi murmurs.

"Is that what this is?"

He starts— _spins_ to face her. Shirayuki can feel him move, even if she doesn't see—as her hands burrow further into her gown. As the watch _ticks_ ever louder in her ears. As she stares at the dainty teacup lying broken on the floor.

 _This wasn't your fault._

"That's— _Miss_ , that _isn't_ – "

There's an edge to his voice, the tiniest warble she only notices after these weeks of forced proximity.  
Something a different Shirayuki might leap at, might use to her advantage.

"Then what are you doing?" she asks instead. Perhaps he will humor her.

"I—I'm your _guard,_ Miss," is his terse reply.

To that, she merely shakes her head. "Zen could have sent Kiki, or Mitsuhide, with me."

She finally raises her chin, to look at her companion in this sad state of affairs.

"So why are you here?"

* * *

 **7**

* * *

Miss certainly had a point.

It made _far_ more sense to send Sir, as Master originally intended. Someone who actually knew the ropes—knew how to handle nobility, knew how to wield authority—knew what was expected of a court attendant.

It was a lot of pressure for an old pro, let alone a newcomer. But Obi couldn't complain.

He'd been the one to ask for this.

* * *

Perhaps somewhere, in the farthest reaches of his mind, a sensible little voice insisted this would never work.  
Someone like _you_? A job like _this_?  
 _Not a chance_.

But.

Master surprised him before. Kept on surprising him, really. So he ignored all those nagging doubts and issued the challenge.

In hindsight, he should have expected it—the ferocity with which the prince lunged at him. Two weeks of relentless searching, of scouring docks and ships and warehouses with that chittering mountain monkey, all without even a _hint_ of a lead?

Parry.

Of course his Master felt cornered.

Dodge.

Ready to lash out at something –

Block.

– or someone.

 _Damn.  
_ The blow renders his entire arm numb. He tosses the practice sword to his other, dancing beneath the next sweep of the Prince's blade.

But that was the point. Too much pressure shatters anything. Breaks stone, bends metal.

Parry –

– with a resounding _crack_ , the wood splinters and the sword snaps in his hand. Seizing the opening, his Master charges and instinct smothers him—instinct Obi barely managed to suppress, wrenching incapacitate to disarm.

He landed lightly, mere moments before Master's sword clattered to the floor at the edge of the practice ring.

And then everything started happening at once.

It was _late._ The little Miss was leaving in mere _hours_ —he'd just ruined _days_ of careful planning. But no one complained. Master went to inform her of his decision. Miss Kiki handled the necessary documents. And Sir dragged him off to the castle clothiers, leaping straight into an explanation of his newfound duties.

* * *

His gaze drifted to the wall as he pondered, so he risks a glance at Miss. She waits for his answer, knuckles slowly whitening into her skirts.  
Stares at him with that unnerving gaze, when he hasn't many to spare.

Obi scratched at his shoulder and looked back to the wall instead—studied the wainscotting's gleaming woodgrain, the intricate patterns in the gilt wallpaper, the lush paintings of plants and produce, even the detailed carving of their gigantic frames. _Anything_ to distract himself while he quashed the sudden urge to bolt.

 _Damn._

If there's a joke here, it's _him._

His _arrogance_ in thinking half a night's instruction equipped him to handle _any_ of this. This was not his arena nor his modus operandi. He was hopelessly out of his element, and no matter how he looked at it, he was a weapon, not a shield.

So why _was_ he here?

"Well?" she asks.

Obi tensed reflexively.

"Or is that a secret too?" Exhaustion seeps to the surface of her tone.  
He risks another glance.

She _did_ look tired.

It peered out more and more from beneath the crumbling edges of her mask.

Not the all-encompassing physical exhaustion after a long day's work, or even the sudden crash that follows a particualrly close call. No, this was a kind of tired that builds gradually—a slow sinister grind over days and weeks and months until all that remained was a relentless bone deep weariness and the feverish desire for respite.

The Elder Highness was certainly doing his best to break her.

And she was _too damn good_ a pretender—like coastal cliffs standing strong against crashing waves whilst the sea steadily undermined; the damage remaining hidden until the whole thing suddenly collapsed.

Now he watched as she teetered on the brink, afraid his next word, his next action would tip her over the edge instead of coaxing her back.

"What – " he ventures, cautious.

At this point, there was nothing else for it.

* * *

 **8**

* * *

Shirayuki stares at her guard, completely and utterly dumbfounded.

She'd obviously misheard. That _must_ be it—these weeks of perpetual exhaustion had finally gotten the better of her, and now—on top of _everything else_ , she was hallucinating.  
Because there's no way _._

 _No one_ could possibly be that _dense._

And yet! He seemed so, well— _sincere_ —that for once she thought he'd actually give her a straight answer. Not—not _this_. Not one more bend in his long, winding trail of diversion.

A pang of guilt tripped through her gut as she realized _exactly_ why Zen called him an idiot. And then it promptly vanished when Obi repeated his question. Only louder, in case she hadn't understood him the first time.

Shirayuki ground her fingertips into her temples, trying to collect the frayed ends of her nerves.  
Just how far was he planning to take this?

"Miss, _please_ tell me. What am I doing _wrong_?" he insists.

Apparently her grim silence was not having the desired effect. That, or every ounce of his uncanny perception had suddenly deserted him. When he opened his mouth for the fourth time, the words flew from her tongue before she could swallow them.

To his credit, the man actually flinched. But he steadied himself, and then had the gall to open his mouth _again_ –

"You mean _besides_ picking fights?" Shirayuki snaps.

She loosed a long rumble of a sigh and ran her fingers through her vibrant hair. Smoothed out the staticked strands, collecting them at the nape of her neck.  
Was he _that_ determined to mock her?

"Miss—" he blinks, "That wasn't my –"

She let them fall.  
"Look. On the off chance you _haven't_ noticed—I'm _tired_ , Obi. I'm tired – I'm _stressed_ , and I _don't_ have the energy to play _games_ with you."  
Shirayuki threads her fingers together and primly places her hands in her lap, ignoring the urge to instead coil them into fists.  
"So if you're looking for entertainment, go find Sakaki."

Now that— _that_ certainly got a reaction out of him.  
"You know about – " he starts, quickly bowing his head before going absolutely _rigid_.

"Of _course_ I know about your midnight conversation on _castle security,_ " she says, small twinge of pride prickling across her skin for _finally_ gaining the upper hand in this melee.

 _While a professional's opinion is always enlightening_ , Sakaki droned, _do keep a tighter reign on your bodyguard._

But keeping her own tone mild proved an impossible challenge.  
"Were you trying to get us both _arrested_?"

"I wasn't—"

"Then _stop_ ," she hisses, " _playing_ around!"

I don't think this is a _game_ , Miss!" he protests, his head snapping up to meet her flashing gaze.

"Oh. That's _right_ ," Shirayuki sneers, "it was a _joke_ , wasn't it?"

Something stole through his eyes then, but it was gone before she could place it.

"This is all one big joke," she smolders, "and _you_ just couldn't miss out on it!"

And for once Obi holds his tongue, as the accusation settles between them; a line drawn at their feet.

They stare unblinking at one another from across the cluttered table, periodic drip of spilled tea and her own haggard breathing the only sounds in the room.

"Sorry."

" _What_?" she squints, not sure if she'd heard properly over the blood roaring in her ears.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. Softly, on the cusp of a whisper.  
"I wasn't trying to get caught."

" _You_ –" she sighs heavily into her hands. "You can't just _wander off_ like that, Obi."

"I was looking for escape routes. In case – "

Shirayuki grit her teeth, but the words tumbled out anyway.

"You _left me_ alone with _him_!"

* * *

 **9**

* * *

Everything slips into place the _moment_ the words leave her mouth, and –

" _You_ just," she stammers, face still buried in her hands, "just, turned around and _ran off_!"

– and he'd never _dreamed_ that words—a mere _handful_ of _words—_ emptied lungs with all the ruthless efficiency of a savage blow.

"With a, an _'I'll be right back!'_ And I thought –"

She gasps. It's harsh, raspy. Halfway a sob. He can't see her face.

"– you'd get caught in a trap, or wah— _worse_."

He can't even move.

* * *

Give Miss a semblance of control by letting her pick the destination, certainly knowing which she'd choose. Far too many prying eyes stationed along the route, yet conveniently near an entrance to the castle underworks. Promptly forgetting the way and cutting off their escape with an accidentally triggered gate. Add a persistent tail, to keep the guard focused on what lurked behind?

It was _perfect_.  
An elegant trap poised to eliminate two annoyances in one fell swoop.

And he rushed her straight into it, to get her away from _gawkers._

* * *

"Wh, why? What were you _thinking_?" she sniffs.

Obi blinks.

Like a bolt from the blue, motion returns to his limbs. He tests his fingers, his toes one by one. They obey. Forces air into and out of his lungs at a steadier rate. Wills his heart to do the same and slow it's breakneck pace. Slow— _slower_ —good enough.

Now what?

 _Think._

Words.

He needed _words_.

 _Good_ ones—coherent, calm. Carefully considered.

But there were none.

No words, no excuses, no explanations—

He abandoned her to chase after _children_.

Still he clamped his jaw shut, lest his tongue betray him.

"You didn't answer my question," Miss presses, rubbing slowly at her eyes.

 _Shit_.

"I...thought I'd catch our tail," he says, voice remarkably even, all things considered. "Make them lead us out. Since His Highness was roaming in circles."

She doesn't respond to that with words, just a low rumble muffled by her hands.

Obi leans forward. "Miss?"

"I _said_ ," she mutters, just loud enough to make herself heard, "the tail you didn't see fit to _mention_."

"I—didn't want to worry you."  
It's both true and nowhere near enough.

" _Lying_ is supposed to make me worry _less_?"

But it wasn't a lie. Not really. She didn't notice, and he didn't volunteer the information.

It was a gambit _she_ made skillful use of, as well.

"What – " Obi ignores the rapidly mounting tension in his shoulder, his chest. "What would you have done?" It came out sharper than he'd intended, a rock clattering down a stony hillside.  
"No turning back after His Highness sprang that trap."

Miss's chin snaps up, hair flying askew.

He only gained momentum. "Were you planning on talking to them?"

Her hands hover before her—grasping in vain for an anchor, clutching nothing but charged air. One finally white-knuckles into her skirts. " _I'd—I'd think of_ – "  
The other flies to the watch at her heart, fingers latching to the familiar shape through the fabric of her gown. Her voice crackles.

Still, he forged ahead—with all the subtle discretion of a boulder hurtling down a mountain.

"Hope whoever it was happened to be _friendly_?"

The storm finally breaks.

"Even if I couldn't change _anything_ ", she rages, "I'd still rather _know_! Don't you _dare_ decide things for me!"

A pox on his _damn fool tongue_.

* * *

 **10**

* * *

Every. Single. Time. Shirayuki thought that this was it, that she'd _finally_ crashed to the bottom of this dark ravine and things couldn't _possibly_ get any _worse—_ he kicks her feet out from under her. Sends her sprawling, desperately flailing to regain her stance.

"And _how_ ," Obi retorts, his own footing immutable as stone, "am _I_ supposed to _know_ that if you won't _tell_ me?"

She finds her feet. " _Oh_ , so now it's all _my_ fault."  
It just kept on going, kept on getting better and _better,_ didn't it?

" _You_ ," he stabs a finger at her, emphasizing every word with a slow twist, "are too good a _pretender!_ "

That knocks her off balance, but she recovers, comes back swinging.  
"I wouldn't _need_ to pretend if you'd just do your _job!_ "

Obi swings his own arm around, smacking her counter aside and jabbing a thumb at his own chest.  
"I _can't_ , unless _you_ let me!"

And then—then there is a lull, a brief respite.

A stilling of limbs, and a catching of breath.

But not a calming of minds, nor a staying of wills.

For each still seeks the next opening, and each still tries to guess the other's strategy.

Each searching for the quickest way to end this nonsense.

Shirayuki glares hard at her guard, trying to puff herself up, look more threatening than she felt. It's no good. She can't read him. She doesn't know what to expect, but she knows she won't like it.

Obi leans forward and she steels herself.

"I'm on your side, Miss."

Well.  
He certainly _sounds_ earnest, but his face is blank, ill effects of the previous exchange wiped clean off.

Such an abrupt change of tactics—a feint?  
"Really?" So she drenches her own voice in venom. "I'd have _never_ guessed."

The facade _crumbles_.  
"You _stubborn_ little –!" Obi's hand flies to his mouth—but it's too late, far too late. Because there it is again, that little warble –

– and _this_ time, Shirayuki _lunges_.  
"Little _what_?" she punches, throwing all the force her tiny frame can muster behind it.

He meets her gaze but doesn't respond. His hand remains frozen between them—palm out, fingers half splayed.

So she fists her own fingers into her skirts and _goads_ him.

"I'm the _punchline_ , right?"

It lands, she _knows_ it does, from the twitch of his jaw to the tremor in his hand, and the sharp _whoosh_ that accompanies each breath he forces through his nose.

But he simply stares.

Unblinking, unyielding, unmoving.

Her carefully contained rage threatens to boil over once more, but she checks herself. Checks her breathing, loosens her death-grip on her gown. It's a testament to the quality of the fabrics that she hasn't put a hole in it yet.

Still, she can't take much more of this.

 _Finally_ , he lowers his arm, if only just a bit.  
"You don't have to trust me – "

"Don't _patronize_ me." Shirayuki snaps.

Obi motions for calm before settling back into the sofa, tilting his head until he is the one studying the ceiling. The rest of his limbs slowly slacken as he shakes off the pent-up tension.

And that—that is new.

" – Just, tell me how to _help_ you."

* * *

 **11**

* * *

Obi stares at the ceiling. At the carved flora weaving in and out of dark coffers, at the little piles of dust clinging precariously to the shadows of leaf and vine. Vine that seemed to writhe and slither the longer he looked at it.

How had he even _managed_ to bungle things so quickly, so _completely_?

He hadn't done a _thing_ to shield her. And all he did do? Made everything _worse_.  
Slowly, he raises one arm, reaching again for that insufferable little itch creeping along back of his neck.  
Damn that _stupid_ collar...

" _Don't_ – " says Miss, her tone piercing deep as the cry of a rusted gate in the night. "Don't wander off again. Don't keep _anything else_ from me!"

And his mind instantly alights with practical considerations. Races through different scenarios, likelihoods, probabilities. Encounters a problem.  
"What if I can't tell you?"

Judging from her sharp hiss of breath, it was the wrong thing to say.

 _Damn it all,_ Obi sighs, silent.

Really _._

 _Really_.

He thought he knew everything there was to know about exhaustion, but this?

This was new. This was different.  
All they did was talk—fight— _argue_ , and still it sapped his strength far faster than the most demanding of tasks he'd ever set his body to.  
Ridiculous. Words alone shouldn't drain him so.

Abruptly noting the suspicious length of Miss's silence, he tips his chin down to quietly peer at her.

Her shoulders remain bunched and tense, trembling hands coiled into fists, fingers full of gown—but her green eyes dart this way and that. Glancing over their tea-soaked refreshments as she ponders...something.

Obi lifts his head to get a better look.

"You could _cough_ —" she muses, hesitant. "If you noticed anything...strange. Then I'd at least _know_ , and those nearby...wouldn't?"  
Her voice steadies with each word and she looks up at him. "We can get somewhere safe and _then_ you'd tell me."

He blinks, tapping his chin and humming low to himself. "Like a _code_."

"Yes! Exactly!" Miss's shoulders finally relax somewhat, as she eases her hold on her skirts.

Obi furrows his brow, considering the idea as he hoists himself forward, nudges an empty saucer away from the edge of the table. "Yeah. I can do that."

Seriously. He _should_ have thought of it much, much sooner. Codes were commonplace in his _previous_ line of work, and they'd certainly do every bit as effective a job in this one.

He nods to himself, and meets her gaze. "What else?"

All they needed to do was work out the signals.

"What...else?" she echoes, tipping her head curiously to the side.

"If there's something _you_ don't like, Miss," he clarifies, "How do you tell me?"

"Oh. Like...pretending to stumble?"

"Something smaller," he starts, picking up a spoon. Then quickly adds with a flourish – "But if you pretended to twist an ankle, that's an excuse to leave."

"Hm, I..." Miss pauses, releases her gown completely to press her fingers together.

"Maybe I'll just cough too..."

"That'll work." He twirls the utensil through his fingers. It'll work _perfectly_.

"Wait," she says.

The spoon freezes in his hand.

She peers up at him, over her fingertips. "What if _you_ pretend to twist an ankle?"

"Ah." An odd question to be sure, but—she's _good_. "Then...someone might get careless, if they think the bodyguard is injured."

Miss hums, crinkling her brow.

"That, or I pretend to be drunk," he offers.

Miss frowns. "No one familiar with your drinking habits will buy that," she deadpans.

 _Aha ha_.

Obi swallows.

"Sorry. Bad joke."

* * *

 **end**

* * *

 **Author Note:**  
Thanks so much for reading! Feedback is greatly appreciated! :)


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